My Crush Might Kill Me

There are probably three things you should know about me.

One: I'm a werewolf. Like, full moon, teeth, claws, pack hierarchy, don't-wear-white-around-me-on-a-shifting-night kind of werewolf. And yes, I live in a secret werewolf town in the woods where we hunt vampires for sport. Mortal enemies and all that jazz. We even have custom stakes. Personalized initials. We're very organized murderers.

The stakes are beautiful, actually. Hand-carved oak with silver-inlaid lettering. Mine says "J.C." for Julia Claw—that's me—in this gorgeous script font that took the pack's craftsman three weeks to perfect. Dad insisted on the silver inlay because "presentation matters in warfare." I think he just likes the way they gleam in moonlight, like we're some kind of supernatural Martha Stewart murder club.

Two: I have a crush on the Alpha's son. Oh hush it. I know. How typical. But have you seen Caleb Thorn? He looks like if stoic leadership and a hot lumberjack had a baby and raised it exclusively on protein and prophecy. He's got this voice that could make a manifesto sound sexy. Deep and rough around the edges, like he's been gargling gravel and good intentions. And when he runs drills shirtless? I don't care how feminist you are. You stare. You drool respectfully.

The way his shoulders move when he demonstrates combat stances. The concentrated furrow between his eyebrows when he's explaining strategy. How he unconsciously rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing forearms that could probably bench press a small car. I've memorized every scar, every freckle, every time he absently runs his tongue over his bottom lip when he's thinking.

It's pathological, really.

And three: I have a tendency to trip and fall on—or into—just about everything. Doorframes. Ditches. Danger. Myself. It's a condition, really. I call it chronic embarrassment syndrome.

For example, last month I was assigned vampire patrol duty by my dad (hi, I'm also the Beta's daughter—if you think that makes life easier, please enjoy this picture of me faceplanting into a ceremonial torch during a Moon Festival). The flames had been blessed by three different elders and were supposed to burn for seventy-two hours straight. I managed to extinguish them with my forehead in under thirty seconds. Dad's expression that night could have killed a lesser supernatural creature.

Anyway. I was trying to take out a bloodsucker lurking near the southern ridge, but wooden bullets have range issues. The crossbow felt foreign in my hands despite months of training. My palms were sweating, making the grip slippery, and the vampire—this pale, lanky thing with stringy hair and clothes that screamed "I shop exclusively at Dead Guy Depot"—kept darting between the trees like some kind of anemic ballet dancer.

I steadied my aim, controlled my breathing like Dad taught me, squeezed the trigger...

So instead of saving the day like a badass warrior princess, I accidentally shot a penguin.

Yes. A penguin.

The bullet sailed wide, ricocheted off a granite boulder with a metallic ping, skipped across the surface of what I'd thought was just a random pond, and struck something that definitely wasn't vampire-shaped. The splash was immediate, followed by the most indignant, high-pitched shriek I've ever heard in my seventeen years of existence.

Apparently, the local sanctuary does seasonal relocation programs for endangered species, and nobody told me the vampire scent was right next to a freshly installed saltwater tank. The penguin—a chunky little emperor with attitude problems—surfaced like a feathered torpedo, water streaming off its head, and fixed me with the most accusatory stare I've ever received from wildlife.

I was aiming for the heart. I missed. The bullet ricocheted off a rock, skipped across the water like an overachieving pebble, and pinged a poor paddling snorty sausage right in the butt cheek.

The scream it let out haunts me to this day.

But worse than the scream was what came next.

That penguin flipped me off with its flipper. Flipped me off. There were witnesses.

Amy was there. Three junior pack members. And Mrs. Henderson from the sanctuary, who spent twenty minutes explaining penguin anatomy while I stood there holding my crossbow like the world's most incompetent assassin. The vampire, meanwhile, had long since disappeared, probably dying of laughter somewhere deeper in the woods.

The penguin recovered. I got a formal reprimand and mandatory target practice every Tuesday for the rest of the month.

Anyway. Welcome to my life.

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Tonight is the Full Moon Gathering. That's capitalized because it's basically the Met Gala for werewolves, except instead of red carpets we have bonfires and instead of celebrity gossip we get whispered predictions about who'll wake up mated tomorrow morning.

The clearing pulses with energy—dozens of pack members milling around the ceremonial fires, their voices creating a low hum that mingles with the crackling wood and occasional burst of laughter. Someone's brought drums, and the rhythmic beating matches the quickened pulse in my throat. The air smells like woodsmoke and pine resin and that particular metallic tang that always comes with moon magic.

Colored lanterns hang from the surrounding trees, casting dancing shadows that make everyone look mysterious and otherworldly. The elders wear their formal robes—deep purple silk that catches the firelight—while the younger pack members have dressed up in their own ways. Leather pants, family heirlooms, ceremonial jewelry passed down through generations.

I am one of those hopefuls.

The unmated ones. We cluster together unconsciously, drawn by shared nervous energy and the faint scent of anticipation that clings to our skin. There's Marcus, seventeen last month, who keeps adjusting his collar like it's trying to strangle him. Sarah, who turned eighteen two weeks ago and has been walking around with this glazed look of constant expectation. And me, practically vibrating with possibility.

I turn seventeen in approximately four hours, which means any minute now, the Moon Goddess could imprint a name into my nervous system, light up my nose like a cursed bloodhound, and go: You. Him. Fate. Good luck, loser.